


a cure for narcissism

by yuushi



Category: Kagerou Project
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuushi/pseuds/yuushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. In a small winter town somewhere deep and far, Shintaro is a young doll-maker who falls in rapture with Ayano whom he sees at the bridge. Haruka is made, a living doll like all loving dolls, and falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cure for narcissism

Things that do not yet exist: a good sense of amenity and wit, that she might have been better entertained; nimble hands, that would create even more impressive works that could make up for what his mind lacked; and the figure of a girl who loves him back. He had seen her; she had been standing on the bridge and leaning over the ledge, her long black hair flowing over her shoulders, and her fingers half-curled along the cut wood rail. He would learn that the wind had loosed her muffler from her neck and in a fit of flustered stupidity he'd gone off and said he'd find a way to rescue it for her, and with that display of valor he had gone back down to the bank and fallen rather stupidly into the water on a day that was especially wintry.

Still, he had seen her, and she did not yet love him back; or, perhaps, that was presumptuous. He had no idea whether she would love him at all, nor did he know if what he felt was really love. At times he wondered cynically if what he felt was only infatuation and that, with the winter, it too would pass. But in the small town the snow drifted gently well into the months that only last year had been delegated to spring, and so his tongue-tied affection lingered. She herself did not seem very interested; or, if she was, he could not discern it whenever they would on occasion meet in the town square by the oak fountain, and he was often always a little late because she looked like a portrait by the water waiting for his arrival, her smile gentle and slight.

They could not meet often. Ayano had younger siblings to care for and Shintaro had his work. He was still only an apprentice and though the master was out of town as he always was Shintaro could not slack, or it would be his head when the master returned and found Shintaro just as clumsy as when she had left.

So Shintaro works wondering why: the town was not yet sunny, plus his work was lately underwhelming; his breath wisping was bitter to his chapped lips. His dolls had remained still: they were pretty wood creations, chiseled with care; but perhaps not enough. They sat nicely on the shelf but would not move about the workshop like the master's, and he knows he's expected to have at least one at his disposal if he is to ever be taught anything new.

Yet no matter how often he forces his mind to his work, there she is, loveless but beautiful and kind. She does not love him back and perhaps he does not love her at all. He hasn't the wits or skill to know himself or her; but he does have eyes that did capture the vision of her form by the fountain, and so as it went that when he had laid in bed one morning once woken up moaning, "What now? What now?" knowing he had still not made himself a real doll her figure came to mind, and in flux the smile that would precede her voice when she spotted him and, alight, she would call out to him and wave, it was this that guided his hands when he again took to wood.

Shintaro often scolds Haruka because he is, as he says, "a pain."

"I think that's a little bit harsh," Haruka whines quietly, half under his breath, as he gathered up the tea on his tray to return to the kitchen.

"No," Shintaro retorts as he stretches back against his working chair. "I've met a lot of dolls, believe me, and not a single one's half as bad as you. See, even that one--" he jabs a finger to a young girl dressed pretty and tending the fire. "Master made her a pipsqueak and she can still get tea right. I bet I can do it even better than you."

"Ehh? You can now?" Haruka exclaims with genuine surprise. "But last month, you burnt yourself just pouring the water, and you couldn't work for three w--"

"T-That was then and this is now!"

"Ehh, is that how it is..."

And of course Shintaro shoos him away at this point because Haruka is entirely too clever without ever really realizing it. Obediently, takes his leave with a bow and clumsy grace, but when he leaves the room he adopts a gloomy attitude for lack of knowledge of what he'd done wrong. Yes, the tea had been more water than taste, but what of the rest? He could not stand leaving Shintaro in a bad mood,

But Haruka stays not often gloomy; his moods change quickly for the better, the persistence of young love woven into the wood of his limbs. He realizes in the kitchen as he cleans the pot and cups that it's simply in Shintaro's nature to be petty, and his own to be careless; and these were not flaws that could not be overcome. He takes to humming cheerily as he works, his optimism admirably enduring.

It doesn't take long either for Shintaro to feel at least somewhat guilty and invite Haruka back in, and offer him to sit with honey and milk he had employed of the master's more skilled dolls.

"It's just annoying," Shintaro says in the face of Haruka, who all lit up and starry-eyed, "if you mope around everywhere. So sit down already."

Haruka would, of course, nod vigorously, and thrust himself down on the couch to enjoy the drink and the snacks, sandwiches, and scones, leaving only a few behind. Shintaro has no choice but to slouch with his head down in acquiescent defeat. It's only when Shintaro has done his share of repenting, looking weary and lunchless after a half day's work, that Haruka finds it in him to graciously allow Shintaro a portion of the meal. He knows he has already forgiven him; but it is nice to think that for all his hot air Shintaro still waits for him, and Haruka smiles fondly as he drinks his tea, gazing on him.

Often they are on even ground. Though Haruka is modest, he is perhaps somewhat indispensable as Shintaro's first. He makes up for what Shintaro lacks, and Shintaro's dearth is, as always, in practical application.

Shintaro's plans are always great: "Yeah, when I'm done the doll is gonna be like this-- I have enough wood to make him taller and even stronger;" --and at this point Shintaro leans in close to Haruka confidentially-- "and, you know, I heard from some of Master's connections that we might get some tin soon, even if it might be a little delayed by all the snow, so this one'll just be a prototype. With tin, I can make dolls even better." And he tosses himself back against his chair with a self-satisfied smile, in awe of the splendor of his own genius, hands flexing in anticipation of the splendor Haruka observes he was so sure he would soon obtain.

What Haruka does not ask is: "Better than me, you mean?"

He smiles, genuinely, at Shintaro. How could he condemn him for having such pride in his ability? How could he condemn the one whom Haruka had, upon waking, attempted to refer to as "master," "dearly beloved," and "maybe even mine"? Shintaro had given him a terrible earful for that, all while terribly red. But he was not flushed, Haruka had detected, because he was embarrassed, or flattered, or shy. It was the sort of redness that came when your deepest darkest secret was exposed, or some sore spot you had taken such careful care to cover had been not only been touched, but pricked. He had also rejected Haruka referring to him as "Shintaro" in a dulcet tone. "Just Shintaro," he'd said somewhat haggardly and no longer elated, scratching at the back of his head. "Just Shintaro is fine."

Haruka turns to his large easel, then, and begins to sketch some notes. "So they'll be tall and, this time, made of wood -- they have to be strong -- what else?" he asks, though already calculating the blueprint parameters with only that. "Oh, and a girl or a boy? Or neither?"

Shintaro makes a vague hemming and hawing sound as he tips his chair back against the wall until it thunks against it, and finally he responds: "This one's just a prototype, so just go with neither. But the real one's gonna be a guy, so draft it with that in mind."

Haruka, agreeable, makes a sound of understanding, and quickly returns to his work. Shintaro's plans are surely always great, but he hasn't the skill to make them reality; though Haruka, as a doll, lacks the vision that might make him an artist, he is practical and skilled enough to make even the wildest fantasy a practical plan.

Haruka takes pride in this: he's pleased he's gained Shintaro's trust, at least when it comes to drafting, because instead of watching Haruka for mistakes Shintaro can return to his own preparations: the preliminary carving, the molds; the specialized stuff Haruka doesn't quite understand but knows Shintaro does very well. He likes the sound of his pen gravelly paper and, behind him, wood being taken in and out of boxes, and, with Shintaro's knife, carved smooth. Tin could not compare: it is loud and clunky. Shintaro had used tin scraps once or twice before for very small dolls, the sort children would adopt, and even then Haruka found the screws and melding grating.

But Ayano likes tin. She had said wood was homely and familiar, but briefly conceded that tin was prettier, and she liked the way the snow would reflect on it, and how the air was fluorescent in its shine. The way she had laughed then was slight and sheepish and entirely enamoring; even Haruka could see it. His smile was similar, but he finds himself not enough genuine: he could not smile about something he couldn't love.

Yet Ayano seemed always to find a way; he was only a shallow imitation. If he were not, then would Shintaro not also lean near to him when curious about his affairs, as Shintaro did with Ayano? Perhaps Shintaro had no conscious recollection of it, but whenever she spoke or ducked her head; or gathered a snowman's worth of snow in her muffler; or tied her hair up, just to try something new, Shintaro would stand near, a sloppy smile tugged unevenly on his lips, as he would not with Haruka.

And after all, it makes nothing short of sense: Ayano's hair is a far richer black, and her skin is so much deeper in color; her eyes shine with vivace, and when she smiles, oh, she is charming; so charming that Haruka could not help to come to love her in kind, as a human might like another human; as a friend might like a friend. And she is gentle. It's Haruka whom she just as often addresses as Shintaro, and takes in arm her warm skin against his thin wood as the three of them walk through the town, arms all linked and at ease.

But there is a certain matter Haruka finds not yet settled. For all Shintaro's devotion, his infatuation, and perhaps even unconscious adoration, there is something Shintaro doesn't see. It is Haruka who stands in her shadow and sees how it defines her shape clearly. She is, on the inside, entirely black; fierce with determination; loving and presumptuous; and domineering in her kindness. She is caring, yes, but, Haruka finds, too much so. When Shintaro regales his first meeting with Ayano on the bridge wherein her eyes had been hid, Haruka had wondered to himself if she had not then intended to leave before long, into the depths of the river, or, if she were bolder, down from the mountain.

"She sounds like a lot," Haruka concedes, eyes cast downward at his blueprints for the tin doll, the prototype made and done with.

"I guess you could say that," Shintaro says with a sight, thoroughly distracted and slumping against against his work table. "She's more than I'll get to know, probably."

That's true, Haruka doesn't say. I think so, too.

Wood is no longer in favor. It is soon to be all about tin. Haruka sees this, and closes his eyes as he kneels with his fingers interlocked, palms together, praying feverishly in the night. To whom he prays he has no certainty, but he knows he prays for so many things. He prays for a warmer body at one time, and later for a cold and metal one; and then again he prays for shades, because his heart is wooden and simple and his personality must not at all be enrapturing without any depth to him; then he prays to be like the dolls that cannot move or see or speak (or so he thinks they cannot; and if he is wrong and they can do all these things, and are very much alive though still, he prays instead to be a doll, but the sort of doll found in his fantasies); but he prays that, however pale an imitation he is, he might be seen; and with shameful, reddish cheeks, he rescinds all his prayers, and prays that, if he can have nothing else, that the arrival of tin might be forever delayed, and that the snow does not leave, even if it means Shintaro will continue his one-sided affair with a girl who is always almost going.

His litanies are delivered to the frosted window pane, the white moon against black sky shining soft light against his kneeling form. His throat raw and lips chapped, he swallows harshly, dazed, and unsure of what next to do. His prayers were once occasional before they became weekly then nightly as the preparations for the tin doll, so much more efficient than plain Haruka, drew nearer.

His eyes are wide as they drift upward along the paneling, and soon meet the moon. "Even if it isn't love," he murmurs vaguely, his fingers loosely linked at his thighs. "Even if it isn't mine." Then, with shaky hands he pushes himself up from the ground, and, his fever gone from him, he glides from the workshop to Shintaro's bedroom, where one who is loved lay sleeping. The room has only a small high window meant to catch the sun in the east, and it does not catch the moon.

"Shintaro," he says with a low voice, kneeling at the side of the bed. "Shintaro." He presses lightly against Shintaro's shoulder, waking him.

He knows Shintaro hates being woken up, especially so late into the night, but he is grateful when Shintaro, voice rising already to complain, looks at Haruka and stops short.

Shintaro pushes himself up so he may sit, and, tentatively, he asks: "What is it?"

"Ah, first," Haruka smiles, sheepish, though nowhere near as charming as he ought to be, "sorry for waking you."

"Well -- this time, it's fine. What was it?"

"Just..." Haruka drops his gaze. "Just, why did you change your mind?"

"What, about what?" Shintaro clicks his tongue, irritation getting the best of him. He digs a hand into his hair. "Haruka, I can't-- it's not even morning. Come on."

"Sorry, sorry. I just mean-- You know, my hair is the same color, and my eyes are almost the same, and my body, I think, is kind of thin in that way too. But somewhere-- in the middle, you changed it."

"... Is this about Ayano?"

"Yeah."

There is a quiet. The sigh that follows is deep and scrapes in Shintaro's throat. "That's... Because-- Well; it would've been stupid, and kind of embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?"

"And-- maybe, just sort of pathetic."

"... Just that?"

Shintaro's eyes turn toward Haruka's vague form in the dark, and he is quiet for awhile. "Yeah, just that. Why?"

There is no sound exactly; the room is just still, and the air feels noticeably heavy, as if it had always been that way but the fact had only just become apparent. Perhaps because Haruka's form is unknown to him Shintaro thinks something like his mind has been playing tricks on him, and perhaps he merely imagined this whole encounter, and he starts: "Haruka--"

"Sorry-- It's nothing. I was just thinking. Sorry for waking you." There is the sound of blankets pressing down under Haruka's weight as he pushes himself up, and the cloth of his clothes shifting as he turns to leave. "Good night, Shintaro."

"... Was that really it?"

"... Yeah, that was really it. Sorry for bothering you."

He hushes shut the door behind him, and stays. Several moments pass, and he can hear Shintaro shifting within his bed; then rolling over, which brings a stop to all the noise. There Haruka leans lightly against the door, and slides down, limp against the crook of door and floor. He breathes, counting each breath slowly, until morning comes.

Hours pass and it is still too early in the morning to wake Shintaro, and for that he is somewhat grateful. His heart is lethargic still, and he does not think he has the will to do it. But he has counted so many numbers he's afraid he'll lose track of them soon, and so he is saved when a rough knocking comes from the workshop's front door. Confused but despite everything imbued with a sense of responsibility as a doll of this shop, he ambles to his feet and makes his way to the front. By then the aggressor had pounded at least three times more, each set of knocks more demanding than the last.

"Ah; sorry, everyone's still asleep, still." Haruka smiles apologetically to the stranger when he opens the door, a great man with a body that indicates he is well at moving heavy loads. "If you need the master or apprentice, I can relay a message, if you'd like."

At this the man smiles widely, as though he had achieved some great triumph, and with a booming voice entirely too loud for this time of morning he crows: "The sir master's lucky he's a friend of the boss; else I'd be back out there up to my ears in gold about now. You'd better wake 'em quick, boy; the tin's in already, and it's selling out right fast. It's better -- I'll even vouch for it myself -- than the wood you townies here use for everything. Don't know when the next batch'll come in; it'd be a shame to miss it."

At this, Haruka takes pause, and makes a mistake. He asks: "But I thought the merchants couldn't bring it over on account of all the snow?"

The man scoffs and tosses a hand over his shoulder. "You think a li'l snow could keep us out forever? You must be a new sort. C'mon; think about it. How long has it been snowing? Almost two years? Two years of missed profits." The man shakes his head in an exaggerated fashion, and begins to turn away. "Two years too many, if you ask me. Anyway, you tell 'em; they better run to the town square, if they even want scraps."

"Yes, I will," Haruka responds correctly, having regained his bearings. He smiles, warm. "Shintaro's been looking forward to it."

He waves the man off who heads back toward the town square, and watches him until the winter morning swallows his figure up. The sky this morning is a bleak white brushed with faint blues, and on the rooftops and trees there is a fresh layer of snow, not yet perched upon by birds. The earth is not ground, as the books say, but white; and like this it seems this fact had always been so. If the merchants were here, then spring ought to be coming; but not yet, it seems. Not quite in time.

Haruka exhales an icy chill that stings his cheeks, the illusion of an everlasting winter wrapping like cold air around his skin beneath the thin threads of his clothes. He looks up to the sky and sees neither the sun nor the moon apparent against the white. Then he closes his eyes, and closes the door.


End file.
